Recovery
by CitrusCelestine
Summary: Who is the new girl? To others, she seems to be a studious dancer who seems to always stay on the sidelines. On the inside, she's holding a dark secret. Who is he? A mischievous, clever boy or someone who is fighting to hold himself up within a dysfunctional family? This is a story of how Kim and Jared find each other, pull each other out of unhappiness, and fall in love.
1. Chapter 1

*When My World Collapsed*

I was fourteen years old, and outside the studio window, the sky was growing dark. I had been waiting for a long time. My cellphone buzzed from my gym bag.

"Mom?" I answered angrily, "You're already an hour late. It's six thirty, and everyone else is already at home. Right now, it's just me and the janitor. You told me this morning that you'd actually be on time today." For a few seconds, no one answered.

"Kim, I don't know what else to tell you, but I work full time. If I started skipping hours, they would fire me. Then where would we be?" she replied in exasperation.

"But Mom, it's not just this. It's everything. You miss everything. Everyone else-" Her voice cut mine off.

"You know what Kim, we're not everyone else, as much you might want to be. Okay, so I come home after dinner sometimes. I miss a few recitals, but I give you food to eat and a home to live in. What exactly are you doing to help us out Kim? Nothing, except asking me to pay for new clothes or that ballet class that you really want or you're doctors appointments. If you want a better family, go live with someone else. Go, Kim, go to your Dad. I'm sure he'll be happy to have his daughter back after six years. Let's see him do a better job." My mom was almost screaming into the phone. The sound forced me to hold the phone away from my ear. Only seconds ago, I was so angry, but now, I was overridden with guilt. She was absolutely right.

"I'm sorry. I know you do a lot. I'm sorry. It's just, sometimes would be nice, if, if…" I didn't know how to ask her because I already felt so horrible. Memories of the late nights flashed through my head, how her hair fell limply at her shoulders, how her fingers trembled in exhaustion. I had watched her once, as she had picked up an essay that had fallen from my backpack. She had read it at the table while she was eating from an old, boxed dinner. Then suddenly, she had pressed the paper to her lips and had kissed it. A tear had trickled down from her eye, and within seconds, my entire paper had become wet. It had been then that I realized that my mother had no life of her own, that everything that she did was to make sure that I was okay, to pay for my college, to pay rent. I felt horrible that night and so powerless. In fact, I was the problem.

My mother's voice softened on the other end, "I work two jobs. I really wish I could, honey. You don't know how many times I wish I could be there for you."

"Mommy, don't feel bad. I am happy. I really am." A shaky laugh sounded from the other side."

"I'm glad, Kim. Now, just hang in there for a little longer, and I'll be there to pick you up. Love you, Honey."

"Love you, Mom"

I glanced at the clock, and it read a little past seven. My mom still hadn't come, and slowly, one by one, the lights in the adjacent studios began to shut off. I was in the middle of a novel that my English teacher had assigned my class to read for homework, and I was bored.

I left my gym bag carelessly by the wall and started wandering the hallways of the ballet studio. Everything was a lot different when the place was empty. It was hollower and a lot creepier. Shadows hung off of wall decorations, studios looked dark and barren, and the dim lights made it seem like there were actual people sitting in the chairs by the window. I was definitely spooked.

As I kept walking through the studio, I noticed that one room was still lit, and when I got closer to it, I realized that it was the senior performance room. I took a sharp intake of air, and suddenly, I wasn't afraid anymore. I was excited. It was the room that all the junior level students dreamt of dancing in. We had never been allowed inside, but sometimes, our teachers would let us watch the older dancers through the window if we were quiet enough. Now, there wasn't anyone here to tell me to stay at the window.

I opened the cherry-wood door carefully, as if at any moment, someone would come out and yell at me for breaking rules. I ran my fingers across the smooth door knob. Even the door was so pretty. When I stepped inside, I couldn't help but stop and stare, because the real thing was far more exquisite that the view from the glass.

The wooden floor was immaculately polished and felt soft and pliant under my feet, as if a dancer had crafted it herself. The smooth silver mirrors scattered reflections of the small lights that hung from the ceiling all around the room, and the whole space shimmered with scattered light. It was a dream. The magic of Swan Lake, The Temple Dancer, and Giselle was captured in this small, lonely room.

My heart pounding, I threw my sweater on the floor and stretched my hands over my head. I was still in my dancer's clothes from this afternoon's rehearsal. I looked at my face in the mirror, pretended that I was ten years older and enchantingly beautiful, and began to dance. It felt so different, and I felt so free now that I knew that no one was watching me. I let my limbs stretch and bend to imaginary music I played in my head. I pirouetted and twisted and let my body fly. When the slow movement came, I pretended that a partner was holding me, that he tossed me into the air and caught me and spun me around and danced around me. And slowly, I loosened my movements, let them soften, and ended in a pose on the ground. I imagined a crowded theater and the silence that would last for several moments after my performance. Was she human? They would ask in their heads.

Suddenly, I was wrenched out of my fantasy. A slow clap reverberated from the walls, and my entire body froze. I frantically looked around the room to find it's source.

"Brava! Brava!" came a male voice from the doorway, "If I had roses, my dear, I would throw them at your feet." I stared at him in utter shock. How much of my dance had he seen? I studied him closely.

He was tall and lean, built like a dancer. He wore black slacks and a black t-shirt that hung loosely off of his frame. There were faint lines on his skin, telling me that he was probably much older than myself. All in all, he looked like a statue, with a sense of poise that you'd rarely see in a middle-aged man. He looked straight back at me, and I found myself turning a brilliant shade of red.

"You really think so?" I asked him shyly, my voice coming out as a squeak. He grinned in response, and took a step toward me.

"You have talent, Kim. No doubt about that. And the perfect body for this art." He spoke nonchalantly as he tossed off his shoes. I was shocked and very confused.

"You know me?" I questioned, my eyes never leaving his face. He came even closer to me.

"I teach the seniors. Madame Lestrat and Madame Goling say very promising things about you. I'm guessing that you'll be in my class very soon." He was stretching as he spoke. I was absolutely dumbstruck. He continued on before I could muster a coherent reply.

"Your movements were nice, but watch me." He started dancing, but something was not right. He was too loose. His limbs hung awkwardly at times, and every now and then his whole body jerked. When he spun, he shook. He finished and looked at me expectantly.

I tried to repeat what he did, but I knew it was all wrong. His dance was all wrong. I had never seen a ballet dancer dance like that. I felt fingers enclose my arm and a hand grab my hip. He was right behind me.

"No, Kim, not like that," he whispered in my ear, "not at all like that." He spun me around the room, over and over again, and pretty soon, I was feeling really dizzy. Finally, we stopped, and I found myself pressed against the wall, his body pressed against mine. I was close enough to smell him, and what wafted out of his mouth was the sickly sweet scent of alcohol. My heart beat frantically against my chest, and I tried to wriggle out of his grip.

"No, Kim," he commanded. It was as if he was disciplining a dog, "That's not how a dancer moves." His hands gripped my wrists and his hips pinned me back. Tears built up in my eyes, and a strangled cry died in my throat. His grip tightened, and he was really hurting me.

"I don't want to hurt you Kim, but I can, and that too, very easily. Scream, and I will. Cry, and I will. This will be quick, and you can forget about it tomorrow." he whispered into my ear. His mouth went to my neck, and then, I felt it come up from against my leg. And then I thought I had gone blind because there was so much pain. Someone ripped me and ripped me again and kept ripping me until they were sure that I was small enough. I felt like I was being torn, over and over again. I was limp and frozen. To move anything would mean to set off a searing ache.

He finished, but he didn't leave me. He was still holding me in that same ugly way, and his lips still ate my ear.

"Kim, the way you move. Damn, it was like you were put on Earth to tempt me," he suddenly laughed after he spoke, "You can sit hear and cry, but don't lie to yourself. You were asking for it. I could see the way you were looking at me. The way you opened your mouth, you were practically begging. Don't dance like that if you don't know what you're asking. I bet you loved it, my dear. I guess I would cry too. I would be ashamed."

And that was the moment when I felt so small, so small that I wondered if I ever really existed.

I slid the key into the doorknob and turned it as softly as I could. From the inside of the apartment came the sound of urgent voices. I creaked the door open and bright light poured out. Immediately, the voices silenced and heavy footsteps ran from the hallway.

"Kim! What the hell, Kim?" My mom shrieked as she caught sight of me. Following her heels came a female police offifer clutching a clipboard in one arm and a briefcase in the other. My mom rushed to me and held me tightly in her arms for what felt like a long time. Slowly, she released me and stood staring into my face. Her expression darkened as if she had watched something die in front of her.

"You couldn't wait an hour longer?" Her voice was dead flat. Her eyes told me that she was talking to another Kim, in another world, one that might disappear at any second. My silence stretched the fragile string that held the scene together. I could have screamed. I could have kicked him. Was I alive or was my mind the only thing that existed. Finally, under the pressure of the officer's impatient pen tapping, I murmurred something incoherently. I had lost any capacity for words hours ago. What he had taken away from me ran deeply.

She hit me. My mother's palm ran across my face, and she fled to her bedroom, slamming the door shut. I stood blankly, and slowly, my vision started blurring. I opened my mouth to speak, but my mind painted a blank canvas. Sensations. Horrible feelings. The sound of ripping. Those were the only things my body experienced in the moment. The police officer ripped off a sheet of paper from her pad and threw it in the kitchen garbage can.

"Are you okay?" She asked, taking a good look at me. I nodded. I wanted to disappear. I wanted everyone to disappear. "It's midnight. You nearly destroyed your mother. She was worried sick. Whatever you were out doing so late must have been really worth hurting your mother as much as you did."

My mouth opened of it's own accord, like a flood gate about to burst with a rush of water. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted the tears to wash away my dirtiness. I wanted someone to hold me and tell me that everything would be okay, that they would track that man down and kill him.

But, for some reason, my tongue felt taped to the top of my mouth. No matter how hard I pulled, it clung fiercely. How could I put into words what my mind could not yet accept? I looked away from the woman to the battered wall clock that hung by the deck door, letting my eyes follow the steady ticking of the seconds hand. Grandmother's voice rasped into my head. Life goes on, Kim, with or without you, as persistent and indifferent as a wound-up clock.

The police officer ripped a sheet off of her clipboard and slapped it onto the table.

"I could have put this on your record. If I was another officer, I would have filed this under an attempt to run away from home. But I know your mom, and I know that things have been a little hard around here lately. So, I'm going to let this one slide." She paused, waiting for my response. When nothing came, she pulled open the door and gave me a good, hard look. "Be safe, Kim."

When the door shut behind her, my face became wet. I didn't feel like I was crying. I didn't feel anything. Slowly, memories started coming back to me, like a camera lens that gradually grew sharper and sharper.

My legs, splayed out loose in front of me, throbbed with surges of fire. My back was pressed against the mirror, and I was slouched on the floor, utterly defeated. After what seemed like a very long time, I found myself outside the studio, stumbling through the city streets. The blinding lights and heavy traffic were oddly comforting. They muffled my presence, snuffed me out. I was just another body in a swarm of hundreds. I was completely overlooked, and I was safe.

I kept walking and walking and walking. To where, I had no idea. I only found myself slowing when I felt my breathing grow heavier, like the wheezing of a dying motor. Something thin and cool was inching down my leg. I put my hand on my thigh, and when I pulled it up to my face,it was bleeding. I was bleeding. He had hurt me more than I thought.

No. I couldn't tell my mom. I couldn't bear to see her face bear that look of shattered glass, when she would walk like a shadow through the apartment. She had turned into something half-living after the divorce, when she had lost custody of Maya. No. My own pain crushed me from the inside. To feel hers as well would kill me. It would kill us both. I couldn't live here anymore. I never wanted to see him again, his oily fingers, his musty, ugly breath.

The rusty hinges of her bedroom door screamed as I nudged it open. She was on her back, staring up at the ceiling fan, her eyes wide and unblinking. She could have easily passed for one of those patients at a hospital who were really dead except for the tubes and wires and liquids keeping their bodies moving. I wanted hold her shoulders and shake her hard. I wanted to scream to her face. Where are you hiding? Come out! It was growing harder and harder to remember the good times, with me, Maya, and Mom and Dad. We would eat out every Sunday, go see museums, laugh the ripped couch and dimeless dime jar out of existence. Even if our happiness had been a lie, we had clutched it as tightly as a preacher held his Bible.

"Mom?" I whispered. Even the short word wobbled in my voice. She didn't answer. She didn't even move. "Mom." I said it louder and like a command. She flinched at my voice. I winced.

"Mom, I'm leaving. I'm leaving to go live with Dad." The sentence hung like a cloud over our heads. I held my breath, waiting for the storm. Nothing came. Not even a sound. It was as if I hadn't said anything at all. The words hung in the air like dark clouds, waiting to spill torrential rains at any moment. She was far gone.

"Goodbye mom. I love you."


	2. Chapter 2

The hot summer sun beats against my back and melts the sunscreen that I had carefully applied before leaving the house. It is five o'clock, yet the day is arrested at midafternoon. I don't need to tan, for my skin is already a natural Quileute russet, shining with sweat like the gloss on a light wooden floor. I mentally scold myself leaving my sunscreen bottle on the bathroom counter; the car is already parked and locked, and I do not want to drive back home in rush hour traffic. I would have to deal with a little traffic.

Slinging my beach bag onto my shoulder, I pad through the lose gravel and make my way toward the scorching sand. In the distance, I catch sight of a small group of slim, tan bodies running wildly along the shore of the ocean. A Frisbee slices through the air, and a wiry body jumps in front of another to catch it in his hand. Tonight is the summer bonfire, the one held the weekend before school resumes to catch the last vestiges of a fading summer. It is generally understood that anyone who attends La Push High School is invited, and very often, a few teachers wearing Hawaiian shirts or maxi skirts show up for the barbecue. Right now, only the small crowd that plays Frisbee come from the guest list, but when it grows dark, the mass of rowdy teenagers that throng the open space will unfailingly drive away the family picnics and get-togethers.

This year, I am going to be a high school senior, yet today, it is the first time that I have ever attended one of these beach parties. Since I have moved to La Push, my life has settled into a safe routine comprising of school, dance, and novels. My dad had noticed my reticence, and for a long time, he had constantly urged me to go out and spend time with friends. I, for my part, had tried to be more social, but the carefree laughter and the girlish enjoyment of boy gossip were things, I found, I could not mimic. My heart was much darker.

As I head over to the shore, I scan the Frisbee players' faces, trying to see if there is one that I recognized. My search is a disappointment, for they all look like underclassmen. So, instead of joining them, I veer away from the water toward a bright blue sign that seemed to advertise advertise a burger stand. When I get closer, I find that I'm right, and the sign reads, in flashing neon lights ___Blue Island Beach Burger Joint. _

The place is so blue, it's sickening. Looking around, I figure that the owner wanted to recreate a chain of islands inside his restaurant. The floor is painted a sea green, and every few feet white paint outlines what I assume to be waves or ripples. The tables are sand - colored mounds surrounded by chairs modeled after palm trees. Nineties beach music ringsbthrough the air as waitresses dressed in grass skirts and coconut bras dance to tables balancing platters on their hands. The fantasy world is so comical, I can't help but let out a laugh.

I look at my watch and realize that I have an hour until the actual bonfire starts, so I figure I might as well find myself a table. After combing through a variety of deserted islands, I finally settle on ___Blue Moonlight Kingdom_, plop myself down on a palm tree, and fish through my bag for my battered copy of ___A Clockwork Orange_. Just as I finish my first page, a girl's voice speaks from behind me.

&So if you really were stuck on Blue Moonlight Kingdom, what would be the three things you'd bring with you?& I look up from book and fibd myself looking at a small, dark-haired girl in a ___Blue Island Beach Burger Joint _visor and apron holding a small notepad in her hands. Before I have a chance to respond, she answers the question herself.

&Well, I personally would bring ___Pride and Prejudice_ not ___A Clockwork Orange_, a collection of my favorite CDs, and my puppy.& She laughs as she speaks, and I find myself laughing at the silliness of the whole question.

''You should probably find out whether desert islands come furnished with CD players or you'l, be cooking your food on a bunch of plastic discs,& I reply. As I speak, she frowns for a split second and then hits her palm lightly to her forehead.

&Wow, that was dumb. I swear, I'm normally not like this.&

&Long day?& As I ask, she pulls up a palm tree across from me and sits down, throwing her pad on the floor beside her chair.

&Tell me about it. I hate working. I mean, it's a Saturday night. I should be a normal teenager, doing normal teenager things like hanging out at the mall.& Her voice is dramatic, and she speaks to me like we're already best friends.

&I would offer you my sympathies, but I honestly have never worked a day in my life.&

'You don't know how lucky you are. Oh, I'm Lorrie by the way!& She pipes, looking at me with curious eyes.

&I'm Kim,& I say, smiling at her. It is so easy to talk to her, and already, I find myself liking her.

&Kim, Kim,& she muses, &I feel like I should recognize that. You looked so familiar when you walked in. Wait, you aren't that same Kim who won that study abroad scholarship to Spain? I had to sit though a week of Patrick and Rina whining about how they deserved it more. How was Spain by the way? Did you like your trip?& Her fingers tap quickly against the table top as she bombards me with her questions.

&The scholarship was for next summer, not this one, and I'm sorry that Rina and Patrick felt that way. They have this year to try again, you know. There're only juniors. What year are you?& I ask. Her face is so young and her aura is so light and cheerful that it's hard to believe that she's even in high school.

&A junior too. Two more years and I'm out of this hell hole. I feel like this bonfire's the only good thing that's going to come out of this year. I mean, high school is so,& she pauses and stares at the ceiling trying to pick the right word, &basic.& I found myself nodding to her words, for I personally never had found my high school experiences that wonderful either. She keeps talking before I can reply.

&Josh says that we should move to the west coast after we graduate. Look for acting or music careers. You know, all that typical stuff people dream about. Yeah, I know, it's silly. Josh is my boyfriend by the way.& Her eyes shine with excitement and looks at me like her plans are the most natural things in the world. I don't know if she's talking to me or to images of herself living her dream life in California.

&No it's not.& I say, although my voice grows suddenly quiet, &I wanted to be a ballet dancer.& I don't know why I tell her this or why she would even cared, but the words spill out on their own accord. Lorrie frowns at me.

&Wanted? Why can't you be one now?& She asks, looking at me expectantly. An involuntary shudder passes through my body, and I remember the dark eyes that had watched me that day, when my eager self had danced alone in that empty studio.

&It's complicated,& I say curtly. I don't meet her eyes. It is as if the moment is timed perfectly, because at that second a bald, portly man comes out of the kitchen and walks briskly to our table. He taps Lorrie on her back with his clipboard, his eyebrows cross and furrowed.

&I don't pay you to waste time and talk to your friends. There are people waiting for their orders to be taken.& He growls. Lorrie mutters something under her breath and reluctantly gets up. ___Asshole _She mouths to me when her manager's back is turned and quickly scrambles to the tables on the other side of the room.

I am left alone again, but I don't feel that way. In my head, I keep replaying what the manager had said, how he had called me a friend. To be someone's friend, to be close to a person who saw who you were, and liked it- that was something I hadn't experienced since that night, a long time ago. I had built an iron fortress around myself and pushed away anyone who had come my way. The real Kim was curled up in a tiny ball inside this outer shell, silent and hurting. Lately, and very slowly at that, I felt little things changing. I felt myself opening up, my defensive shield cracking, the real Kim peering over the walls checking to see if the coast was clear. As random and short as our encounter had been, Lorrie had cracked open yet another piece of me.

I order a small shake and spend the next half hour engrossed in my book. The sky grows dark, but I do not notice the change until a group of loud, obnoxious boys bounce into the bar, already planning for a drinking contest. At the end of the beach, I can see the outlines of red-orange embers spilling into the air like fireworks. The bonfire had started.


End file.
